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ever；　from　the　secluded　scholar　that　the　sharpest　cry　of　pain　is　wrung　by　the　indignities　of　his　position；　but　rather　from　genius　in　the　act　of　earning　a　full　meed　of　popular　applause。　　Both　Shakespeare　and　Ben　Jonson　wrote　for　the　stage；　both　were　blown　by　the　favouring　breath　of　their　plebeian　patrons　into　reputation　and　a　competence。　　Each　of　them　passed　through　the　thick　of　the　fight；　and　well　knew　that　ugly　corner　where　the　artist　is　exposed　to　cross　fires；　his　own　idea　of　masterly　work　on　the　one　hand　and　the　necessity　for　pleasing　the　rabble　on　the　other。　　When　any　man　is　awake　to　the　fact　that　the　public　is　a　vile　patron；　when　he　is　conscious　also　that　his　bread　and　his　fame　are　in　their　gift　…　it　is　a　stern　passage　for　his　soul；　a　touchstone　for　the　strength　and　gentleness　of　his　spirit。　Jonson；　whose　splendid　scorn　took　to　itself　lyric　wings　in　the　two　great　Odes　to　Himself；　sang　high　and　aloof　for　a　while；　then　the　frenzy　caught　him；　and　he　flung　away　his　lyre　to　gird　himself　for　deeds　of　mischief　among　nameless　and　noteless　antagonists。　　Even　Chapman；　who；　in　THE　TEARS　OF　PEACE；　compares　〃men's　refuse　ears〃　to　those　gates　in　ancient　cities　which　were　opened　only　when　the　bodies　of　executed　malefactors　were　to　be　cast　away；　who　elsewhere　gives　utterance；　in　round　terms；　to　his　belief　that


No　truth　of　excellence　was　ever　seen　But　bore　the　venom　of　the　vulgar's　spleen；


…　even　the　violences　of　this　great　and　haughty　spirit　must　pale　beside　the　more　desperate　violences　of　the　dramatist　who　commended　his　play　to　the　public　in　the　famous　line；


By　God；　'tis　good；　and　if　you　like't；　you　may。


This　stormy　passion　of　arrogant　independence　disturbs　the　serenity　of　atmosphere　necessary　for　creative　art。　　A　greater　than　Jonson　donned　the　suppliant's　robes；　like　Coriolanus；　and　with　the　inscrutable　honeyed　smile　about　his　lips　begged　for　the　〃most　sweet　voices〃　of　the　journeymen　and　gallants　who　thronged　the　Globe　Theatre。　　Only　once　does　the　wail　of　anguish　escape　him　…


Alas！　'tis　true；　I　have　gone　here　and　there；　And　made　myself　a　motley　to　the　view；　Gored　mine　own　thoughts；　sold　cheap　what　is　most　dear。


And　again　…


Thence　comes　it　that　my　name　receives　a　brand；　And　almost　thence　my　nature　is　subdued　To　what　it　works　in；　like　the　dyer's　hand；　Pity　me　then；　and　wish　I　were　renewed。


Modern　vulgarity；　speaking　through　the　mouths　of　Shakesperian　commentators；　is　wont　to　interpret　these　lines　as　a　protest　against　the　contempt　wherewith　Elizabethan　society　regarded　the　professions　of　playwright　and　actor。　　We　are　asked　to　conceive　that　Shakespeare　humbly　desires　the　pity　of　his　bosom　friend　because　he　is　not　put　on　the　same　level　of　social　estimation　with　a　brocaded　gull　or　a　prosperous　stupid　goldsmith　of　the　Cheap。　　No；　it　is　a　cry；　from　the　depth　of　his　nature；　for　forgiveness　because　he　has　sacrificed　a　little　on　the　altar　of　popularity。　　Jonson　would　have　boasted　that　he　never　made　this　sacrifice。　　But　he　lost　the　calm　of　his　temper　and　the　clearness　of　his　singing　voice；　he　degraded　his　magnanimity　by　allowing　it　to　engage　in　street…brawls；　and　he　endangered　the　sanctuary　of　the　inviolable　soul。

At　least　these　great　artists　of　the　sixteenth　and　nineteenth　centuries　are　agreed　upon　one　thing；　that　the　public；　even　in　its　most　gracious　mood；　makes　an　ill　task…master　for　the　man　of　letters。　　It　is　worth　the　pains　to　ask　why；　and　to　attempt　to　show　how　much　of　an　author's　literary　quality　is　involved　in　his　attitude　towards　his　audience。　　Such　an　inquiry　will　take　us；　it　is　true；　into　bad　company；　and　exhibit　the　vicious；　the　fatuous；　and　the　frivolous　posturing　to　an　admiring　crowd。　　But　style　is　a　property　of　all　written　and　printed　matter；　so　that　to　track　it　to　its　causes　and　origins　is　a　task　wherein　literary　criticism　may　profit　by　the　humbler　aid　of　anthropological　research。

Least　of　all　authors　is　the　poet　subject　to　the　tyranny　of　his　audience。　　〃Poetry　and　eloquence；〃　says　John　Stuart　Mill；　〃are　both　alike　the　expression　or　utterance　of　feeling。　　But　if　we　may　be　excused　the　antithesis；　we　should　say　that　eloquence　is　heard；　poetry　is　overheard。　　Eloquence　supposes　an　audience；　the　peculiarity　of　poetry　appears　to　us　to　lie　in　the　poet's　utter　unconsciousness　of　a　listener。〃　　Poetry；　according　to　this　discerning　criticism；　is　an　inspired　soliloquy；　the　thoughts　rise　unforced　and　unchecked；　taking　musical　form　in　obedience　only　to　the　law　of　their　being；　giving　pleasure　to　an　audience　only　as　the　mountain　spring　may　chance　to　assuage　the　thirst　of　a　passing　traveller。　　In　lyric　poetry；　language；　from　being　a　utensil；　or　a　medium　of　traffic　and　barter；　passes　back　to　its　place　among　natural　sounds；　its　affinity　is　with　the　wind　among　the　trees　and　the　stream　among　the　rocks；　it　is　the　cry　of　the　heart；　as　simple　as　the　breath　we　draw；　and　as　little　ordered　with　a　view　to　applause。　　Yet　speech　grew　up　in　society；　and　even　in　the　most　ecstatic　of　its　uses　may　flag　for　lack　of　understanding　and　response。　　It　were　rash　to　say　that　the　poets　need　no　audience；　the　loneliest　have　promised　themselves　a　tardy　recognition；　and　some　among　the　greatest　came　to　their　maturity　in　the　warm　atmosphere　of　a　congenial　society。　　Indeed　the　ratification　set　upon　merit　by　a　living　audience；　fit　though　few；　is　necessary　for　the　development　of　the　most　humane　and　sympathetic　genius；　and　the　memorable　ages　of　literature；　in　Greece　or　Rome；　in　France　or　England；　have　been　the　ages　of　a　literary　society。　　The　nursery　of　our　greatest　dramatists　must　be　looked　for；　not；　it　is　true；　in　the　transfigured　bear…gardens　of　the　Bankside；　but　in　those　enchanted　taverns；　islanded　and　bastioned　by　the　protective　decree　…


IDIOTA；　INSULSUS；　TRISTIS；　TURPIS；　ABESTO。


The　poet　seems　to　be　soliloquising　because　he　is　addressing　himself；　with　the　most　entire　confidence；　to　a　small　company　of　his　friends；　who　may　even；　in　unhappy　seasons；　prove　to　be　the　creatures　of　his　imagination。　　Real　or　imaginary；　they　are　taken　by　him　for　his　equals；　he　expects　from　them　a　quick　intelligence　and　a　perfect　sympathy；　which　may　enable　him　to　despise　all　concealment。　He　never　preaches　to　them；　nor　scolds；　nor　enforces　the　obvious。　Content　that　what　he　has　spoken　he　has　spoken；　he　places　a　magnificent　trust　on　a　single　expression。　　He　neither　explains；　nor　falters；　nor　repents；　he　introduces　his　work　with　no　preface；　and　cumbers　it　with　no　notes。　　He　will　not　lower　nor　raise　his　voice　for　the　sake　of　the　profane　and　idle　who　may　chance　to　stumble　across　his　entertainment。　　His　living　auditors；　unsolicited　for　the　tribute　of　worship　or　an　alms；　find　themselves　conceived　of　in　the　likeness　of　what　he　would　have　them　to　be；　raised　to　a　companion　pinnacle　of　friendship；　and　constituted　peers　and　judges；　if　they　will；　of　his　achievement。　　Sometimes　they　come　late。

This　blend　of　dignity　and　intimacy；　of　candour　and　self…respect；　is　unintelligible　to　the　vulgar；　who　understand　by　intimacy　mutual　concession　to　a　base　ideal；　and　who　are　so　accustomed　to　deal　with　masks；　that　when　they　see　a　face　they　are　shocked　as　by　some　grotesque。　　Now　a　poet；　like　Montaigne's　naked　philosopher；　is　all　face；　and　the　bewilderment　of　his　masked　and　muffled　critics　is　the　greater。　　Wherever　he　attracts　general　attention　he　cannot　but　be　misunderstood。　　The　generality　of　modern　men　and　women　who　pretend　to　literature　are　not　hypocrites；　or　they　might　go　near　to　divine　him；　…　for　hypocrisy；　though　rooted　in　cowardice；　demands　for　its　flourishing　a　clear　intellectual　atmosphere；　a　definite　aim；　and　a　certain　detachment　of　the　directing　mind。　　But　they　are　habituated　to　trim　themselves　by　the　cloudy　mirror　of　opinion；　and　will　mince　and　temporise；　as　if　for　an　invisible　audience；　even　in　their　bedrooms。　　Their　masks　have；　for　the　most　part；　grown　to　their　faces；　so　that；　except　in　some　rare　animal　paroxysm　of　emotion；　it　is　hardly　themselves　that　they　express。　　The　apparition　of　a　poet　disquiets　them；　for　he　clothes　himself　with　the　elements；　and　apologises　to　no　idols。　　His　candour　frightens　them：　　they　avert　their　eyes　from　it；　or　they　treat　it　as　a　licensed　whim；　or；　with　a　sudden　gleam　of　insight；　and　apprehension　of　what　this　means　for　them　and　theirs；　they　scream　aloud　for　fear。　　A　modern　instance　may　be　found　in　the　angry　protestations　launched　against　Rossetti's　Sonnets；　at　the　time　of　their　first　appearance；　by　a　writer　who　has　since　matched　himself　very　exactly　with　an　audience　of　his　own　kind。　　A　stranger　freak　of　burgess　criticism　is　every…day　fare　in　the　odd　world　peopled　by　the　biographers　of　Robert　Burns。　　The　nature　of　Burns；　one　would　think；　was　simplicity　itself；　it　could　hardly　puzzle　a　ploughman；　and　two　sailors　out　of　three　would　call　him　brother。　　But　he　lit　up　the　whole　of　that　nature　by　his　marvellous　genius　for　expression；　and　grave　personages　have　been　occupied　ever　since　in　discussing　the　dualism　of　his　character；　and　professing　to　find　some　dark　mystery　in　the　existence　of　this；　that；　or　the　other　trait　…　a　love　of　pleasure；　a　hatred　of　shams；　a　deep　sense　of　religion。　　It　is　common　human　nature；　after　all；　that　is　the　mystery；　but　they　seem　never　to　have　met　with　it；　and　treat　it　as　if　it　were　the　poet's　eccentricity。　　They　are　all　agog　to